Love, Explained
by LittleMaryMacintosh13
Summary: Really poetic ok. Like really poetic. (Teen rated just in case?) Jehan/Courfeyrac.


_**I decided to work on something new! I dunno... Writers block is awful. I need some more ideas! So I was pretty much laying in bed at 10 p.m. and not doing homework and thought I should procrastinate more and write some fanfiction instead? I dunno. XD Not my best idea. Anyway, I hope you enjoy whatever crap I write below. I legit think it's probably going to be crap, I'm soooo rusty at writing. Well, hope you enjoy! **_

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Jehan Prouvaire was the cutest thing on campus.

Courfeyrac couldn't keep his eyes off of him.

He was a cutie and everyone noticed. Straight guys, gay guys, straight girls, gay girls. Asexual people. Everyone. He was friendly too. He knew everyone. No one could possibly hate Jehan Prouvaire. It was virtually impossible. He was just too..._nice. _

Courfeyrac was the campus' biggest flirt, and everyone knew him. Boys, girls, questionable gendered people. He knew them and he had undoubtedly slept with them. His friends called him a "skeez" and he was okay with that. Sex made him feel good. And Courfeyrac, though most people couldn't tell, was actually a very insecure person.

Despite good looks and a sense of humor, he was incredibly insecure. His brash, bold character that he put on was merely a facade. A mask to cover up his pain. He was childish and loud, obnoxious and unruly. People either loved him or hated him. He liked it that way.

Only two people had ever really caught Courfeyrac's attention.

The first was his friend group's ring leader, Enjolras. No one knew his first name. No one really knew any of their first names. But the golden-haired beauty was a mystery. And he was a mystery that Courfeyrac could never quite crack, never quite understand. It frustrated, yet excited him. He was a friend that he would have for a long time, he could tell. He wouldn't become bored with him. He was too interesting. Though he could care less about his speeches on revolution (though some were worth listening to), Enjolras' whole character was just an attractive enigma. And a curly-haired artist named Grantaire thought so as well.

The second, however, was Jehan Prouvaire.

How could one person be so optimistic? So cheerful? Though he wrote poems of less than happy things, he recited these lymrics and sonnets as if they were a happy bedtime story for children. No one would know a horrible place like hell, had Jehan told a story of it. He made even the darkest places seem like home; comfortable and warm and inviting.

But that in itself was what Jehan was. Warm and inviting. He was a ball of sunshine, lighting up everything he touched.

And how badly Courfeyrac wished to be touched by that little ball of sunshine.

Yes, they were friends. And yes, they touched. But he wanted more. Courfeyrac was slightly greedy (which came from his childishness. Children are very greedy, it is just in their nature), and so he wanted to absorb Jehan for himself. To touch him, and only him. This was strange, for Courfeyrac was a wild stallion when it came to sex.

But Jehan had broken him. He was a very docile horse now, and everyone took notice. He drank less. Talked less. He stopped visiting the local brothels altogether. Poor Joly had gone into quite a fret, deeming him with incurable diseases like cancer and scarlet fever. But little did he know, that it wasn't a disease at all. But more like, an infection. A slow infection that saturates the heart with a sickly sweet aroma that intoxicates the host entirely until they're nothing more than a zombie.

Love.

It wasn't quite clear to the others exactly why Courfeyrac had fallen for the bright and innocent Jehan. They had little in common. They had different hobbies, different tastes. But as Enjolras pointed out one of Jehan's favorite love phrases, "opposites attract", people began to question it less.

Courfeyrac loved everything about him. His heart and his looks and his brain. Though not as big an intellect as Enjolras or Combeferre, he did have a vast wealth of knowledge himself. He had been studying law, but found himself bored. Somehow he did retain quite a bit of knowledge from his classes, though he was much more distracted by the little poet he was so enamored with.

For some reason, for once, Courfeyrac wanted more than just sex. He wanted to take the small social butterfly and pin him down to one spot, to talk to him, to make him look at him and only him. A light embrace and small talk. It was the material that Jehan himself would love to use in a love sonnet.

If only he knew how to write poems as beautiful as Jehan's. As said before, he made even hell look welcoming. Hell to Jehan was not a place of darkness and death and sadness, grief and pain. It was a place of repentance, to think of the sins you had committed in your life. Once you had lived out your life, thinking of those things and dwelling on the good, you were then allowed to leave to go to a higher place. Heaven.

Jehan was an angel. Courfeyrac himself swore he saw a halo over his head, but then again, it might have been in his eyes. Or his smile. He couldn't figure out which was brighter. He could smile with his eyes, a secret smile. Sometimes Courfeyrac would pretend that secret smile was for him. A smile that meant they shared something, that they had something that no one else had. He dreamt of it, of that secret smile and those gorgeous eyes and of lips that curved into a dainty smile.

Jehan, however, was blissfully oblivious. Or was he? He may have noticed the curly-haired "sleaze" watching him, examining him, pining after him so dearly. It was worse than Grantaire's lustful stare at their fearless and determined leader. Lustful in this case, lusting after the man's very attention. There was little that could tear Enjolras from the cause, and Grantaire seeked to be that little that was able to.

Courfeyrac wished the same. Sometimes he would sit and think how amazing it would be to burn all of Jehan's poetry books. Not in a vicious way, of course. But it would be one less thing distracting him. However, Jehan was most beautiful when he was reading or writing or reciting poetry.

His eyes were always so bright, so full of emotion. He seemed so attached to the narraration, the plot, the characters. He himself was the poem. He was art.

If he himself had been a man as capable of creating masterpieces like Grantaire, he would undoubtedly paint Jehan. He was a strange person. Always so light and airy, like a fragile bird. He flitted about, singing songs of merrymaking and love and joy, never ever believing that there was bad in the world.

Courfeyrac was a very cynical person at times. He got along well with Grantaire and considered him a quite close friend. They had the same tastes in alcohol, at the very least. And Grantaire held the same fascination as Courfeyrac. He understood all too well the very obsession over a god-like person.

Though he had once heard Enjolras described as "Apollo," Jehan would be more likely described as a complimentary mixture of Aphrodite, Erato, and Calliope. Beauty deriving from the goddess of love herself, and his poetic genius from two of the nine muses.

Jehan himself was interested in the strange mystery that was Courfeyrac. He seemed so joyful, so alive... Yet with unseen glances, Courfeyrac seemed unhappy. He would be overcome by loneliness amongst a crowd where he went unnoticed. Following, he would make an obnoxious comment that would bring the attention to him. Jehan noticed. He noticed he wasn't loved enough. Not nearly enough.

Courfeyrac was a wonderful man. He was intelligent, though he rarely used it. He had a sense of humor that was both cynical and light-hearted. His lecherous ways were only found as humorous to Jehan, and his childishness; endearing. From the top of his curly cap to his worn boots, he was a good man to Jehan.

He was the material a poet loved. Jehan being a poet, he was attracted to despair and loneliness. It was the material poets lived off of. Courfeyrac was filled with these things. Jehan could sit for hours and write poems about the boisterous drunkard. And he did. He receited them aloud to the group often, but they went unnoticed by Courfeyrac.

The two were caught up in a whirlwind of unseen affections. Either they were too shy to come forward or both were just too dimwitted to realize they were both attracted to one another.

Both being the least sensible, they required help.

Enjolras was no expert on love. Not in the least. He had had flings of course, sexual attraction was a natural thing. His right-hand man, Combeferre, had mostly received these affections. Enjolras had no time for love and emotions. He had a cause to dedicate himself to.

However, he was aware of the subtle attractions between Jehan and Courfeyrac. You would have to be blind not to notice. He was one of the most sensible, he would have to knock sense into them.

Though neither could believe it that yes, they had a mutual attraction, it was right there in front of them.

And Courfeyrac's dream became reality.

Years had passed since that incident.

Courfeyrac was still an obnoxious, boisterous man, though nearing the age of thirty.

His house was clean and it was filled with the aroma of fresh pastries and ink.

It was an odd smell, however it was endearing and homey to him.

They were the scents of Jehan Prouvaire, his lifelong partner.


End file.
